On some days I struggle,
To gulp down the pain,
Like a baby swallowing its liquid food.
But my poetry keeps calm,
Feeds me with fascinating stories,
Of love in the air which vanishes with every breeze,
But manages to find new.
I spit out more and gulp down less.
I write pain in a paper
For my mind to know its syntax.
So that I can feel pain -
More in paper and less in my throat.
On some days I struggle
To weave words together.
Like a sewing needle,
Whose hole is blocked?
I am left with empty paper and unstitched fabric.
I see my cognizance of having
Cold wars with my emotions.
Leaving me in the middle of nowhere.
I searched my Self in pain -
And found me in the trashes of pain.
I know pain has found me to settle;
I have found them to write poetry!